


The Sins of the Father.

by silhouette (thiefless)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Characters Didn't Know They Were Related, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Father/Son Incest, Frottage, Guilt, Like: a lot, Love Confessions, M/M, No Grooming, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, References to Paradise Lost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiefless/pseuds/silhouette
Summary: “Because my own goddamn son is the love of my life!”Or: the one in which Peter is Tony's secret love child, and Tony is a complete and uttermess.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 44
Kudos: 316





	The Sins of the Father.

**Author's Note:**

> I... honestly cannot believe I actually wrote this. This is definitely the weirdest thing I've ever written, and I think this is my limit. 
> 
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS. This is your final warning. If you are not old enough to read this, then please don't. 
> 
> Also, I am in no way advocating for this type of relationship in real life. This is story is fictitious, and should not reflect real life relationships. 
> 
> That said, I hope you guys enjoy it :)

Jarvis' wife Ana liked to read. It was the first thing Tony catalogued about her, way back when she had been on unofficial babysitting duty during those times when his mother was unavailable. There was never a time when Ana was not accompanied by a printed tome, her latest conquest in literary masterpieces. 

She read aloud, too. Initially, Tony was affronted by the practice, sure that she was only doing so for his perceived benefit. It was only when he, in his infinite four-year-old wisdom, informed her that he was a self-professed 'big boy now', did she reveal the truth. 

“It helps me keep my English up to scratch,” she said, Hungarian accent so warm and comforting, like a verbal blanket cocooning him in softness. Her smile turned mischievous. “Plus, it means that I can share the story with you as well.”

Tony returned her genuine smile with a tentative one of his own making. 

When Tony was five, Ana's most recent fad was the _Paradise Lost_ – an epic poem in blank verse, published by English poet John Milton in 1667. It centred on the biblical Fall of Man, yet did not claim to be a religious text. Rather, it was presented as a fictitious adaptation, hoping to reconstruct the Christian story in different words. (Plus, there was the fact that Milton was writing during a time of great political upheaval, with the restoration of the monarchy contrasting with the author's own radical viewpoint. Context was everything.)

Still. It was odd to him. Ana was a proudly Jewish woman, as was her prerogative, and yet there she was, happily reading a work derived from Christian material. 

“But Mrs. Jarvis,” he began. His mother had always informed him of the importance of appropriate titles – a sign of respect that extended even to his own father, to whom _Mr. Stark_ and _sir_ were common appellations. 

At the slight chiding glint in her warm brown eyes, Tony relaxed his formality and allowed a hint of ease to bleed through. “Ana,” he amended, returning her carefree smile with one of his own making. “Why are you reading a story that you don't believe in?”

Ana's hand brushed the stray curls from his forehead with such tender delicacy. “Oh, little Stark,” she cooed. “A person is only as wise as the stories they read.” Ana Jarvis was one of the only people he granted access to the nickname. She never belittled him with it, and instead treated it as though it were something special. As though _he_ was something special. “It helps you see the world through another's eyes.”

Tony had nodded, still not fully comprehending. Listening to other people's opinions was most emphatically _not_ his strongest suit. Even so, he sat up a little straighter, and made sure to pay attention to the retelling, as though some small part of him recognised the magnitude of this text. 

In short: it became Tony's favourite poem. Now, he never claimed to be religious in the slightest, but there was something so enrapturing about the prose, so compelling. Tony was held captive. 

Ana died in her sleep a week before Tony was shipped off to MIT with nothing more than a pointed _try not to ruin my name while you're there_ from his father, and a teary farewell from his mother. In Ana’s will, she entrusted her personal copy of Paradise Lost to Tony. 'To keep you wise _,'_ she'd added. 

The book was one of two personal possessions Tony took with him when he left for college – the other being a framed photograph of himself and his mother; Howard was nowhere to be found that day – to start the 'new chapter of his life'. 

(Hey, now. Tony was fifteen, a genius and heir to a billion-dollar corporation – all things pretty much guaranteed to make life damn near impossible to adjust to, which meant he ended up taking solace in the comfort of re-reading the literary masterpiece of his youth.)

The story resounded with him, impacted him far beyond his lonely days at college with no one but his sourpuss and an old book to keep him company. When he finally wised up enough to become a founding member of the Avengers, _Paradise Lost_ was playing on repeat in his head. 

The melodic words that infused the text floated around in his impossibly huge brain, the meaning getting lost in translation every time Tony picked up the book, until the pages were dog-eared and faded with the imprint of time.

* * *

You know what, though? In spite of the ginormous God complex he carried around on his shoulders, bearing the brunt of its weight like a personal medieval torture device, Tony always fancied himself to be more the devil type. Just as arrogance had been the downfall of Satan, Tony's hubris had done the same to him; over the long years of being an Avenger, wising up to the crimes of his past and trying his best to wipe the slate clean, it was his pretension and pride that led to the splintering of the team he once considered the best alternative to family. 

Case in point – Ultron. Admittedly, it wasn't the main event, but its contribution to the disbanding of the bunch of superheroes was not to be overlooked. And, lo and behold: entirely Tony's fault. So, he did what he did best – manufacture a dozen more red-and-gold nitinol fused suits after alleging to his ex that he had given up the gig for good. (It was no wonder she left him.) 

And then came the real kicker. The super-powered re-enactment of the American Civil War. Now, because Tony had a propensity for self-rumination on past failings, he'd spent a great deal of time contemplating whether he was in the right or not, and he'd come to the conclusion that it would all be down to whatever shining being took mercy upon their souls. In Tony's case, absolution had never done him much good. 

But in the here and now, there was a pressing need for _answers_. All the verification one would need to determine Tony's place in the afterlife. Much like Lucifer's descension into Hell, Tony's little rebellion against his fellow comrades had some quite serious repercussions for the years that followed. 

His silver lining – if people like him even deserved silver linings – came in the form of one Mr. Parker. The plucky eighteen-year-old kid he recruited from a run-down apartment in Queens; poorly-paid photographer by day, masked vigilante by night. Basically, right up Tony's alley. 

After the disastrous fight in a German airport, Tony did his best to pick up the pieces, starting with Spider-Man. He dropped Pete off back at his apartment that he shared with his aunt, with little more than a stunted farewell and a half-hearted promise to be the kid's referee should he rescind his stance on not going to university. A shame, really. Peter would have thrived at MIT. But, _crime stopped for no man, Mr. Stark_ , so Peter never stopped either. 

(And Tony was ridiculously charmed.)

After Peter took down the Vulture, saving his expensive jet in the process, Tony revoked his decision to sell the Tower, and also invited Peter to join the Avengers, which he did so long as Tony promise not to reveal his identity. 

A trying task, admittedly, but when had Tony never not risen to challenges? Plus, even back then, he knew that Peter Parker was someone he wanted to hang on to, as evidenced by weekly lab sessions, and routine patrols. Which, apropos of nothing, the crime rate in New York was at an all-time low.

And then and then and then: Peter never left, and Tony never asked him to. 

Peter was the quintessence of subliminal beauty – so magnificent, so haunting, so daunting. So unlike any that Tony had met. He stole Tony's breath with every utterance, every stolen glance, and Tony was helpless to resist. 

(Tony felt what he did _in spite_ of Peter's age, not _because_ of it.

The distinction didn't make it okay.)

As if on cue: “Hey, Mr. Stark.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. unlocked the door to Tony's personal lab, Peter's familiar footsteps setting his heart aflame like a giddy teenager, and not a forty-eight year old man who _really should know better by now._

“Underoos,” Tony greeted instinctively, turning to look at him, bracing himself for the inappropriately disproportionate reaction he'd come to accept not long after Peter became his protégé. 

God. Peter truly was magnificent – an assertion not lessened by the literal rose-tinted glasses Tony'd favoured for the day. No, it was an unshakable fact, as true as the sun. And the pristine suit the kid was sporting was certainly the cause of some minor heart palpitations. Not the least because it was a suit _Tony_ had bought for him, shortly before the proclamation that Peter was a shiny new Avenger. 

“Lookin' good, kid.” There. Not too bad, right? Yeah, right. Tony had this in the bag.

Peter shifted nervously at the praise, eyeing his clothing with apprehension. The urge to soothe the frown lines that marred the kid's forehead with his tongue was getting harder to ignore. 

Tony coughed discreetly. _Time and a place, Stark_.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, trying for a smile. “I wasn't sure what to wear.”

Jealousy threatened to rear its ugly head for whomever had impacted on Peter’s decision to wear such a delectable number. “For your hot date?” He masked the inappropriate surge of envy with a suggestive wink. 

Peter chuckled weakly. “No. Definitely not a date. It's – I’m meeting my birth mom. Yeah, she got in touch. Said she wanted to meet me, that now seemed as good a time as any. Which brings me to what I was going to ask you...”

Tony raised a brow. He could see where this was going. “Need some moral support? I've been told I make a pretty good buffer. Plus, if you need a quick getaway, I'm your man.”

Tony smiled softly as Peter's shoulders sagged, relief rendering his expression lax. “Oh my god, yes please. I've been dreading having to do this alone and–”

He clapped a firm hand on Peter's shoulder, halting the kid's manic rambling. “Not a problem, kid. Whatever you need.”

* * *

Little did he know, he would rue the day he knew the truth.

* * *

Miriam Brown was a formidable woman. Tony could see the resemblance in their conviction, in their respective power. Underrated, but no less important. 

Her story was rather subpar, at least in Tony's considered experience – and he'd had a lot of missed calls over the years. She was a struggling young woman in her twenties, had a lot going for her, biological father wasn't in the picture. 

“He didn't want me to keep the baby,” she said. Her teeth glinted when she smiled. “So, naturally I did.”

That earned a nervous chuckle from Peter. Tony's was a little more refined. 

If she was perturbed by Tony's involvement, she wasn't showcasing it – another tick in the similarity box between her and Peter Parker. 

Miriam was a journalist by trade, and the way she dictated her history only proved it. She had a way with words, such charisma, such vivacity; she made language her bitch. It was rather unlike Peter, and Tony spared a thought for whether the birth father was to blame for the kid's tendency to lean on his extremities as a visual guide when describing his day. 

Not that Tony was complaining. He much preferred Peter's storytelling. 

Nevertheless, in his humble opinion, it was all going swimmingly. Too well, in fact. Tony was almost waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

(A shoe; not a whole goddamn building.)

Miriam nudged Tony with her elbow, a flirty smile playing on her lips. Twenty years ago Tony would have taken the move as impetus to seduce her. 

“I'm glad I didn't get the abortion after all,” she said, a half-smirk curling her lips. She cocked her head over to where Peter was currently getting up to grab an extra coffee for himself, Tony following her gaze with a deep frown, an odd note synthesising in his brain.

And then the ball dropped.

What Tony thought was: _oh_.

What Tony said was: “ _Oh_.”

Miriam was unimpressed. “Vocabulary diminish in your old age? I seem to recall you being much more talkative twenty years ago,” she said, petty disdain dripping from her words. 

But Tony wasn't looking at her. His stare drawn to where her biological son was standing. He could pinpoint the exact moment the words registered in Peter's head, his overactive senses probably wrecking havoc as his mind computed the information Miriam had so carelessly thrown to the wind, blissfully unaware of the damage she just caused. 

Peter's spine stiffened, face growing impossibly tense, so much so that Tony half panicked he was about to burst a blood vessel in his precious brain. Tony wasn't faring any better. _Like father, like_ –No. Not been proven. 

Not yet.

Tony's chair clattered to the ground, surprised by the ferocity in which his body moved. He wasn't sure what half-assed apologies he spouted to the woman he fucked once, a long time ago; brain churning away on autopilot. He dug around in his pockets, slamming a fat wad of cash down on the table with maybe a little too much power than was strictly necessary. 

His feet moved instinctively, eyes probably wild with an inconceivable terror. Peter wasn't looking too good himself. 

“Stark?”

Tony led the kid by his elbow, Peter following his lead for once in his life, away from what had all the hallmarks of being the worst café in the history of fucking cafés. He flagged down Happy, who greeted them with a concerned frown but thankfully didn't press for details, and bundled Peter into the backseat of his pedestrian Audi – he figured it would be best not to drive in style for once, and hindsight only agreed with him. 

Tony called shotgun. 

Upon their imminent arrival to the Tower, Tony immediately barked orders at an unamused F.R.I.D.A.Y., ordering her to run a paternity test. 

Peter passed over his arm for Tony to shakily insert a needle into. Which. Coming from a kid who wasn't shy about his hatred of injections, it was a sure sign of trust. A trust Tony was neither deserving of, nor equipped to deal with. Not this time. 

The silence between them was oppressive, stifling, yet favourable to the alternative. He wasn't sure he could trust himself to speak just yet.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. didn't take too long to deliver the news. (Of course she didn't, she was a good girl. Tony designed her himself. Not dissimilar to Peter.)

_Peter Parker was his biological child._

* * *

Sin sprouted from Satan's head at the height of his rebellion against God. Sin, glorious and resplendent and beautiful – “ _woman to the waist”_. Yet her lower half was a hideous sight; the consequence of perpetual fertility, labouring under terrible conditions and cursed to a life of endless agony. Her body had betrayed her, constantly morphing, giving birth to young that resembled dogs that gnawed at her waist. 

An allegorical character, to be sure, but no less haunting. 

In the preface to his fall from grace, Satan had taken his daughter in hand, defiled her, impregnated her. Death was their legacy – a shadowy figurehead; cruel and malicious, delighting in the corruption of life, tainting its innocence. Sin was no exception; the dogs that tormented her were of Death's making. 

The antithesis of the holy triad. 

Tony had always sympathised with Satan.

But not for this. Never for this. 

There was no way in hell that Tony was going to tempt Peter into a life of depraved iniquity. For Tony, it was par for the course. He vehemently refused to tarnish Peter's good name down along with him. 

Because – and God help him – Peter was his sin. But he sure as hell wasn't about to let _Tony_ become Peter's.

* * *

"Say something," someone said, voice rough. Like something was barely surviving, hanging on by a thread as asphyxiation made its presence. 

It took him another second to recognise that _yes_ , that was his voice now. 

Peter swallowed so loud Tony could feel it vibrating against his skin. He was dimly aware of the magnitude of space that now lay between them – a hidden veil prohibiting him no further access. Probably for the best, all things considered. “Was it good?”

A weight in the pit of Tony's stomach dropped. “God, kid, what kind of a question is that?”

Peter flailed his arms. “I don't know.” He sounded on the verge of crying. “I don't know.”

A beat. A beat in which the English language, and all its infinite capabilities and possibilities, deserted Tony. 

“Can we just – not tell anyone about this?” Peter was wringing his hands, a nervous tick Tony hysterically acknowledged as pertaining to _him._ “At least – not yet?”

Tony nodded, distant. He briefly wondered whether this was what dissociation felt like to the uninitiated. 

Of course, all of this was without even mentioning Tony's role in orchestrating attempted feticide. 

Why did it matter; why did it hurt so much? Because Tony was the first antagonist in the life and times of Peter Parker; the first person who tried to snuff the life right outta him. And yeah, the kid was just a clump of cells back then, not really _anything_ – but knowing that did not magically absolve Tony and his bucket load of guilt. 

Pain laced down the left side of his body. It took all of his strength not to dissolve into a puddle of anxiety, and he had to fight to regain control of his breathing. 

As though through some sudden power of _paternal_ telekinesis, realisation dawned on Peter's face. 

“I don't blame you, Mr. Stark, for wanting an abortion. I'm pro-choice, and it was as much your choice as it was hers. Besides,” he tried for a lopsided smile, one that had adorned Tony's face a number of times, “I wasn't really alive yet.”

He was unwavering, voice as strong as Tony had heard it all day. The belief shone through. He really believed Tony was in the clear here. 

If only it were that simple. 

Tony was held prisoner by Peter's sturdy gaze. Even his eyelids were loathe to disrupt the contact between them. 

“I love you,” Peter suddenly blurted in the absence of sound judgement, shock clouding his ability to discern adequate common sense, giving voice to his misguided feelings. “I love you, sir. I love you, and I'm your son and I don't know what to do.”

White noise muddled through his ears. Tony didn't have a radioactive spider bite; he had to contend with unremarkable, run-of-the-mill senses, so sometimes – oftentimes – it took him a little longer to react to stimuli. 

Like _that_. Learning that his own blasphemous feelings were reciprocated. He never anticipated that they would be. Now all he desired was that they weren't. 

“No...” Tony shook his head; definitive. Assertive. “No. Your father – your _real_ father – died when you were six. You're confused. You don't love me.”

Peter shook his head, no sound coming out. It would appear that Tony wasn't the only one imprisoned by the emotional intensity. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter started again, a tiny whimper. His face crumpled like sand, tears glistening in his eyes. “What do we _do_ now?”

But Tony had reached the end of his emotional limit; his proverbial fuse had tripped, all the alarms and wires in his anatomy currently screaming at him to _get out, get out now!_

“Mr. Stark–”

Tony was gone before Peter finished his sentence.

* * *

Look, it wasn't as though Tony wanted this to happen. He had enough to contend with already, back when the kid's age and terrifyingly young life experience was his only deterrent. 

People often married people who looked like them. It was a thing. Not that Tony was planning on proposing marriage – to anyone – any time soon, but... well, a guy could dream, right?

(Even the words were similar: _familiar_ and _family_. Language was a fickle beast at the best of times, he really didn't need it to be screwing with his head now.)

Biologically, Peter had taken nothing from his birth mother. At least, not externally – Tony didn't presume to know her well enough to determine whether any personality traits were shared between them. No. Peter was constructed in his father's likeness; he bore _Tony's_ face. The slant of Peter's brows, he owed to Maria Stark; the cut of Peter's jaw, sculpted in the shape of Howard Stark. 

Peter's eyes _(the windows to the soul)_ were stained from Tony's genetic paintbrush. 

It was a goddamn miracle that someone as pure, as perfect as Peter could come from someone like Tony. 

Howard once claimed that Tony was his _"greatest creation_ ", like his dad had pulled a Doctor Frankenstein and tinkered around in the lab day after day, perfecting the finishing touches of his latest project. But Peter wasn't his " _creation_ " – that would imply that Tony had a hand in the development of his person, which. Okay, yes. From a purely biological standpoint, Tony's chromosomes were kinda vital to his conception, but that was it. Everything else was all Peter. 

Tony, boiled down to his most primal form, was a scientist. He could approach it methodically, precise, formulaic.

Objective.

(Nothing about _this_ was objective.)

DNA. That's all it was. Everybody had it. Deoxyribonucleic acid. Such a quaint, convoluted term for what essentially boiled down to the building blocks of every cell in a person's body. The genetic blueprints of life. 

To put it contextually: the building blocks of every cell, every atom of Peter's miraculous body came from Tony. Made from Tony's own flesh and blood.

See how there was a conflict of interest?

And now, like he was some perverted character in a tragic Greek tale, he'd gone fallen in love with his goddamn secret _son_.

God. Tony really was a narcissist. Wasn't this exactly the type of thing Tony'd been fighting against ever since Afghanistan? He really thought he changed, but – what kind of _person_ fell in love with their own miniaturised carbon copy? 

Tony wondered whether some small, subconscious part of him registered Peter's importance to him on the very first day they crossed paths, whether it had connected the dots on their shared ancestry and determined that the correct course of action would be to avoid the kid at all costs. 

Or maybe his presumed clairvoyance had simply acknowledged how fucking _soft_ Peter Parker would one day make of him, blood or no. 

No. No fucking way. He wasn't doing this. Whatever... _this_ was, it wasn't fun or kinky or sexy. No, it was quite the opposite, in fact: taboo, abhorrent, depraved. 

Sinful. 

And not the good kind. 

Bile curdled in Tony's gut, nausea overlapping the sea of digestive acids, threatening to usurp his oesophagus and invade his mouth. 

His love, his reprehensive _want_ for Peter was illegal, amoral, wrong. Plain and simple. 

Tony muffled a hoarse cry into his trembling fist.

* * *

Tony respected Peter's decision not to inform anyone of their shared genetics for all of an hour – which. Look at that. Not even a day and he was already racking in nominations for Worst Father of the Year. Guess the apple didn't fall far from the tree, huh?

With a characteristic penchant for dramatics, Tony unceremoniously hauled himself into Rhodey's training room, interrupting what looked to be homework for his next physical therapy session. He would feel bad about it, but he was directing all the guilt and regret he would have used up, channelling it all into Peter. 

Rhodey stopped, sighed, barely surprised by the crude interruption. His shirt was damp with perspiration. “You get five seconds to tell me your problems, and then I have to get back to my work.”

“Peter's my son,” Tony blurted with no compunction, in a manner painfully reminiscent of Peter’s confession. 

Rhodey blinked once. Twice. Three times.

“Scratch that,” he said dryly, shifting to appraise Tony's considerably less than composed decorum. “You've been upgraded to five minutes. Starting now.”

* * *

In the aftermath of discovering the truth – both in regards to their biological connection, and Peter's requited adoration, Tony did his best to erect _(bad lexical choice)_ new boundaries. In his head, they were steady, unflinching, vibranium. But in reality? They were paper-thin, a crumbling castle in a world gone mad. 

So, Tony did what he did best: self-destruct. 

(Considering that Tony's self was directly proportional to Peter's self, the mental word choice was particularly apt.)

Rhodey's _compos mentis_ advice was to let Peter dictate the situation, to give him the space he needed to rework the world to make sense again. Given that Peter was perfectly content to attend their lab sessions as usual, and sleep overnight at the Tower when their patrols went too long, Tony roughly translated that to mean: pretend everything was A-okay. And it was going... well. It was _going_. 

Every time Peter entered his vicinity, commanding Tony's attention with nothing more than a simple _look_ , quick and fleeting and yet profound in its intensity, Tony was enraptured. Held captive by the kid's stare. 

In true Tony Stark™ fashion, he reacted badly to the stimuli. 

“Since you're my last living kin, it's pretty much guaranteed that you'll inherit the proverbial keys to my kingdom, so you can drop the act now,” Tony snapped after Peter innocuously invaded his personal space during their lab sessions, hunching over Tony's latest project and driving him damn near crazy all the while.

His words came out venomous and mephitic – a final defence mechanism, barely resisting the onslaught of unadulterated Peter Parker. 

The visceral pain laced in Peter's features rebounded back onto him, and he immediately wanted to snatch the cruel, callous words from the air, and force them back into his lungs – but he could no more control the past than he could begin to fix the utter train wreck that was their relationship.

"Okay," Peter replied, dissociative, in a tone devoid of nuance.

That had been a particularly painful day. All the words left unspoken, the gaping chasm of silence between them smothered Tony, and he found himself craving the moment Peter left, before he did something he could never do. 

(Except, when Peter had finally wised up and left Tony and his bucket load of guilt chained in the lab, he only felt worse.)

So, he opted for a different coping method. Humour. Tony was renowned for his quips, well-endowed after years of learning from the sarcasm of his dear old dad. Maybe it was a trait he could pass down onto his son.

Jesus Christ. His _son_. 

Speaking of... “Good morning, Oedipus.”

“Oedipus?”

Tony waved a nondescript hand. “An upgrade from Lolita, don't you think?” Ah, harking back to simpler times, when his reservations all hinged on their differing ages, and not on their biology.

He fancied he could hear the distinct click of the kid's _(his kid; it was his goddamn kid)_ jaw. “I'm not twelve,” Peter grounded out through clenched teeth. There was a fire smouldering in his irises, determination bleeding the edges. Tony knew that look, had seen it often enough in the mirror, catching his reflection in Iron Man's visor. It was a gleam he adopted when faced with the most impossible of choices – the epitome of unflinching resolve.

Yet, buried deep behind the emotional armour, he detected a hint of dejection, of despondency, of despair. Peter knew this was a fight he would not win, and he was _fighting anyway._

Tony swivelled on his heel. It would do absolutely no one any good to offer comfort. 

“I just meant... Please don't treat me like a kid. Mr. Stark, I'm _in love_ with you.”

Peter really needed to stop saying that. Tony couldn't be held responsible for his actions if the kid kept pushing. 

Tony didn't look up from his project. “Loads of people fancy themselves in love with me,” he said flippantly. “Join the club. I would give you a membership, but I'm all out of white forms.”

His head snapped up just in time to see the door slamming shut, indicative of Peter's hasty retreat.

Oh. So far, so good.

* * *

That evening, Tony chained himself to the lab while Peter retreated to his room. A fifty-hour lab party; that's what he needed. Elbow-deep in the bottomless pit of his blood-red Ferrari, grease painting his grey tee, black tar smearing his skin, staining it for an indefinite amount of time. It was something to do. Besides, his mind was otherwise preoccupied with thoughts of the teenager currently sleeping in his room at the Tower, regret flooding his senses as he recalled his less-than-exemplary attitude in the wake of the monumental news. 

He was debating whether or not it would be in his best interest to book an all-inclusive cruise for May – with the vain hope that it would help sway her to his side once the inevitable truth surfaced – when F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice interjected:

 _“Boss, Peter Parker is currently experiencing a night attack.”_ A pause. _“He is calling for you.”_

There was a hint of alarm as she relayed her words. Tony'd programmed the tone into her software, one that he'd come to associate with Peter. 

Panic flooded his own software, and he hauled himself up, discarded his tools beside him, and he walked briskly to Peter's room. 

The sight that greeted him was painfully redolent of his own relationship with sleep, and empathy welled in his chest. The covers of Peter's king-sized bed – only the best for the best – were haphazardly sprawled left, right and centre, pillows thrashed to the side as Peter trembled in the throes of an all-encompassing nightmare. Anxiety was a cruel mistress. 

Would the similarities between them never end?

(Some abysmal part of him noticed that the kid was wearing Tony's ratty old Metallica shirt – as though he didn't have enough of Tony already. 

That possessive, primal, animalistic part of him smirked lecherously, rattling the bars of its very well-deserved cage. That part was not allowed an opinion. Regardless, he had other things to concern himself with.)

It took little time at all for Tony to drive into action. He perched on the end of the bed closest to where Peter was, who was actually dangerously close to veering off the opposite side, and did his best to convey as much softness as he could. 

“Pete? Kid, you gotta wake up.” He gently shook the kid's shaky arms, noting how they jerked and they stopped as soon as his rough hands made contact. “You're having a nightmare.”

Peter's eyes blinked open rapidly, molten-brown irises scanning the dark room with a night-vision only he possessed. 

“Kid. Kid, hey.” Tony smoothed his sweat-soaked hair with a tenderness he didn't know he was capable of. “Hey. It's me. Tony.”

“M'ss'r Star'?” Peter asked blurrily. In the dim lighting, Tony could just about make him out against the darkness – his expression the very paragon of sheer discombobulation. It would be comical if the whole situation wasn't so terribly _incongruous_. 

Tony nodded. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Peter couldn't see him. 

Without a hint of warning, he was hit with an armful of Peter leaping into his barely-extended arms, and he reacted accordingly, as if on autopilot. Tony caught him effortlessly, using his own stature to hold the kid's body as it shook and jolted in his touch. 

Peter burrowed into Tony's neck, seeking some sort of comfort from the close contact. Tony was doing his very best to remain unaffected by the proximity, and how Peter's shaky breath felt against his skin, how Peter's chest felt pressed to his, arms wrapped tight, leaving no inch untouched.

Almost as though they were stuck together.

Tony tested his hypothesis by experimentally shifting a little, and immediately taking stock in how Peter's grip resisted. 

“Are you sticking to me?”

“I'm sorry," was the first thing Peter said, words coming out warbled, competing against sniffles Tony could feel against his neck. "I know that we are supposed to be... _familial_ now.”

“Literally nothing about this can be construed as familial,” Tony said with as much tact as he could muster in his bone-deep exhausted state. 

He regretted it when Peter flinched in his hold. 

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it weird.” Peter paused, inhaling a shaky breath. “I just miss you. I had a dream, and you were... you were gone. You left me. I didn't– I mean, I don't–” He choked.

Tony was one second away from offering Peter his own beating heart. And this was a bad idea. Literally, the worst thing he could possibly think of and yet– 

“Turn around.”

Peter froze. 

“Trust me, Pete,” he said, encouragement bleeding into his tone, thumb tracing tiny little circles on his shoulder. 

Cool air hit him immediately as Peter untangled himself, sleepily obeying Tony's order to turn on his side; back to Tony's chest.

In return, Tony covered the length of Peter's body with his, and he couldn't help his low groan of relaxation rumble through him at just how good it felt lying next to him. Peter's body moulded so beautifully against his, so delicate Tony almost feared the faintest wisp of breath could send the whole thing tumbling down – and he did his best to direct his thoughts _away_ from analysing exactly why Peter's body felt like it was made to fuse against his. Tony knew he would blame this whole indiscretion on the bone-deep weariness that had suddenly befallen him come the morning, in the harsh light of day, but in the here and now he would simply luxuriate in the feeling of Peter Parker's back press tight against his chest, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle come together as one. 

Tony's hand was smeared with black where it lay, possessive, on Peter's stomach. Even through the thin shirt Peter adopted as his own, he felt the flexing of strong muscles, twitching and vying for dominance beneath his palm.

He stayed above the covers. That was about as much self-control as he could muster, and it was slowly diminishing by the second.

“I'm right here,” he whispered after a pregnant pause. “You don't have to stick to me. I'll always be behind you.”

Peter hummed: sleepy and content to bask in Tony's presence. His hand sought out Tony's where it was resting about his middle, interlacing their fingers. 

Tony dropped a closed-mouth kiss to his clothed shoulder. “Sweet dreams, kid,” he mouthed into Peter's nape. He burrowed his forehead into the slender curve of Peter's neck, slotting in so beautifully in all the little nooks and crannies of Peter's body. Like Peter was made for this. Made for Tony to hold – _and stop this train of thought right goddamn now, Stark_.

Scientifically, his sleep-addled mind helpfully supplied. He was approaching this scientifically. Objectively. Well, in this electrifying moment, the atoms that made up Peter's molecular DNA – the same atoms derived from Tony's genetic makeup – were positively charged, infected by the declaration Peter had voiced not a month ago, still rife in the air. Tony was helpless to resist; rendered defenceless and exposed. Every cell, every atom in his body, negatively charged, was straining under the force of attraction between them – urging to bond, to transfer Tony's excess electrons to Peter, to give him everything he had, whatever he needed. Forever.

(... Yeah, Tony's metaphors were apparently stuck on the chemistry side of the equation. But. He had quite literally developed an atom not all that long ago, and there were worse things to assemble metaphors from.)

It was the fastest he could recall falling asleep. His dreams were filled with brown eyes, warm smiles, soft touches, put to the song of Peter's lilting laugh, a melodic refrain that tugged on his heartstrings. It had been recorded in the psychological sector that unconscious desires manifested in dreams – and who was Tony to refute science?

* * *

May's reaction was one for the books. 

Tony thought back to Peter's earlier insistence that they not tell anyone, and he wondered whether Peter needed a buffer now, too. 

“He's still my little boy,” May said on the phone, after she'd had a little time to process the rather startling news. “You may be his biological father, but you're not his dad.” Pause. “Ben was.”

Tony had lost the power to speak. When he regained his vocal capacity, he offered May the all-inclusive cruise holiday. 

The disconnect tone was his only reply.

* * *

After that, Tony did his best to maintain their prior relationship as best he could. Peter's tear-stricken face, believing that Tony would abandon him due to some unfortunate biological connection, severed whatever misgivings he possessed beforehand, and so he did everything in his power to make it better.

All, except... Well. _That_. There were some lines even the great Tony Stark could not cross. He'd read _Paradise Lost_. He knew what would be awaiting the both of them should he defile Peter's innocence, and he swore that he would never risk Peter's health and happiness for _anything_ – including himself and his own fucked-up, carnal desires. His id could go fuck itself. For once, he was letting his super-ego – the little angel on his opposing shoulder, the voice that had been silenced in booze and drugs and women for far too long – take point.

(Yes, he had been reading up on Freudian theory. Approaching it logically, remember? Besides, he mastered thermonuclear astrophysics in a single night. What was a little psychoanalysis in the grand scheme of things?)

The threat of eternal damnation stayed his hand – just because Tony didn't personally believe did not mean that he was willing to risk Peter's afterlife. His arrogance didn't extend that far. 

But Tony's guilt was a supernova of sin – ready to buckle and collapse, explode under the strain, ready to transcend into a black hole, under which nothing could escape the event horizon. Not even the one person he swore he would never touch. 

By this point, it was irrefutable what would happen. It was science. 

More accurately – it was _Tony_. 

The sting in the tail was as such: he'd rarely been able to deny himself anything – and his capacity to refuse _Peter_ was a finite resource. Sooner or later, he knew he would _snap!_ and fall all over himself, caving to the whimsical wishes of his biological son. Whatever he wanted. For however long he wanted it. His house of cards falling like leaves; a forgotten memory. 

Tony never claimed to be a good man. 

Especially not now, not after his body had expert knowledge on how snug Peter had felt tucked up against him. He'd barely been able to resist staring at the shape of the kid's lips, theorising how they'd feel wrapped in his. His body called to him, and Tony was just weak enough to capitulate to his every demand.

Great. He was right back at square one. 

So, in lieu of better avoidant strategies without overtly illustrating his panic, he started using work as an excuse – his actual S.I. boring-as-fuck work – resorting to actually turning up _on time_ to his meetings. Honestly, the first time he arrived promptly, you'd have thought somebody had died given the scandalous looks and shocked expressions when he walked in. 

It was a temporary solution, and it probably came as no great surprise when it all came to a head on what would otherwise have been a very typical, mundane, loathsome Monday evening. 

Tony had just returned, exhausted and drained from the most tedious meeting with the most inept people – because apparently when Pepper took sick leave, all of the competent workforce followed with her. F.R.I.D.A.Y. had just unlocked the door to his private quarters, ready to just fall straight into a coma, and hopefully not have any mental energy left to ponder on Peter fucking _Parker_ –

And then paused in the door as soon as his eyes landed on the one person he was doing his utmost to passively avoid. 

Peter's own eyes widened, as though not actually expecting Tony's arrival _in his own bedroom._ He donned his customary science pun shirt and some tight jeans, which Tony did his best not to ogle at. Hey, it was harder than it looked. 

Peter took a deep breath. “You're gonna have to explain it to me, because I'm confused. You're giving me a lot of mixed signals,” he started, as though reciting a speech. “You run away and dismiss me when I mention that I love you–” and there they were again, so cavalier and mundane, as though Peter was born to say them “–but then you hold me after a nightmare, and tell me that you'll always be with me.”

He couldn't speak. Damn it all to hell. Why couldn't he speak?

Peter scoffed, although Tony got the sense that it was mostly directed inward. He wiped his eyes with the scruff of his palm. “Do you think I want to do this? That I enjoy throwing myself at you? Because I don't. But I am in love with you, and you're _everywhere_. You are literally coded into my DNA, and I can't... _function_ without you.”

Tony was powerless.

Peter steeled his nerves. “So, this is the last time. If you want me to stop, just tell me, and I'll go. I promise. I won't bother you anymore.”

Tony opened his mouth, to voice the word he knew would spell about the end of the greatest relationship he ever had, but no sound came out. 

“I can't,” he finally settled on, a broken plea. 

“Why not?” Peter's eyes were sad. Desperation cloyed his following argument: “You're not my dad. You didn't raise, didn't love me.”

Tony clenched his fists, hard. Little crescent-shaped grooves dug into the meaty flesh of his palms. Good. “That's not what biology says, what genetics say. This isn't some philosophical hypothetic debate on the Nature versus Nurture argument. You are _my_ son.” He barked a bitter laugh. “You owe your entire existence to _me_.” Funny. The whole God complex thing he had going on normally felt a lot better than it did right now. 

Peter looked absolutely devastated. “I know.” He sounded miserable, wrecked, and the sound of it tugged at Tony's heartstrings, an urge to make the hurt go way making its way known. “But I love you anyway.”

Peter didn't mean them maliciously, didn't even seem aware of the effect those three little words were having on him. Tony reeled as if slapped anyway.

 _God, kid, stop saying that to me,_ he wanted to say, but didn't trust himself to speak. _You have no idea what you're doing to me_ – that was too close to the truth to be anything but.

The air crackled between them, a frisson of anticipation striking down like a bolt sent from on high. 

There it was again – the event horizon. Only this time, it was Tony who was sucked into Peter's orbit at the point of no return. 

Peter's tone was unbowed by the tense emotional standoff. “Why not, sir?”

The _sir_ really was the icing on the cake. 

Tony had to say it. It was the one thing guaranteed to get Peter off his back for good... or wind up getting to keep him for the rest of his days. 

No, he shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't – read: he absolutely fucking _should_.

“Because my own goddamn son is the love of my life!”

Oh. Oh, no.

(Crap. Crap crap crap crap _crap_. Where was the rewind button? Why did life not come with a rewind button?)

Why in God's name did he do that?

Correction: he knew why. _Peter_.

The second the words landed, he wanted to take them back. The truth should _not_ will out, should _never_ will out. Whoever coined that ridiculous turn of phrase was an imbecile. 

Awe shone in Peter's eyes, an upgrade on the hero worship from before. Tony tried and failed not to get blindsided. “I'm the love of your life?” Peter whispered, hushed in a gentle devotion that snatched whatever rejection Tony was about to spout clean from his lungs. 

_It was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Your Honour._

What was the use in pretending that Tony wasn't Peter's? 

“Yeah, kid,” Tony croaked. “For whatever it's worth.”

Peter took a step forward, inviting himself into Tony's personal space. 

“If I kiss you, will you pull away from me?”

“Kid...” Tony exhaled, the word torn from him, broken and disjointed.

Peter took another step. There was such raw vulnerability reflected in his baby browns, ones that mirrored Tony's own fragility. “If I kiss you, will you pull away?”

It was at this point that Tony finally took matters into his own hands. More specifically – his hands bracketed Peter's open face, cradling his skull in his much larger palms. 

Which. _Fuck_. What the hell was the next step?

“If I kiss you...”

Peter, as it turned out, did not kiss him. 

Tony did. 

A furious blend of lips and teeth and tongue, and there was blood somewhere in his mouth, but he couldn't tell whose it was. (Did it really matter? Their blood matched regardless.) He wanted to say their first kiss was sweet; that it was chaste, but that would be another lie. Tony hungrily devoured Peter, taking charge of the kiss, coaxing him into following his lead. 

Tony kissed the kid – _his kid; Peter was his fucking kid_ – within an inch of his life, greedily, devouring everything he could get his mouth around, grateful for every last whimper. Tony's blood flowed in his veins. Tony's breath poured down his throat, stealing away his little whimpers and moans.

“Wait, wait, stop.”

Tony withdrew from Peter's lips, a thin strip of salvia connecting their mouths together amidst their separation. His breath came harsh and ragged, mind whirling as a million possibilities swam into his head. 

Peter jerked his head in the direction over Tony's bed. “I don't have much experience with this kind of thing,” he began, unwilling to give Tony even the slightest chance to ponder on all the ways this constituted a bad idea. His eyes sparkled, twinkling like stardust. “But I think this is the part where you invite me to your bed.”

He walked backwards, swagger poising his posture, and flopped back onto the bed with a wide-eyed grin.

Tony grinned wolfishly, canines flashing. He pounced upon Peter's form – still buttoned up in his grey three-piece suit, his fucking oxford shoes still on his feet, but it didn't matter. He ate up all of the kid's little shrieks and giggles, feeling the way the vibrations turned to moans. He grabbed Peter's hips, hands trailing down to his thighs, before he slung them over his back, encouraging Peter's needy movements. 

It wasn't slow and sweet; it was hot and messy and hurried. So imperfectly _perfect_. Tony wouldn't change a thing.

Air was in diminished supply, though it was of little importance to either Peter or Tony. Peter rutted against him, cock jerking into his thigh. Tony copied his movements with increased vigour, using Peter's whimpers as the best kind of motivation. 

Peter bared his neck, and Tony lavished his throat, littering it purple and red with indents the shape of his teeth, sucking bruises into the tender skin – perfectly sinful and so fucking depraved. There was no earthly reason why it was so good, why this primal, animalistic display of implicit trust made _Tony_ , made _Peter_ feel so good, but he wasn't inclined to ruminate on the reasons why just yet. 

Tony trailed his nose up the steep incline of his neck, eliciting the sweetest purr from Peter, high-pitched and wanting, feeding his own gratification back to him. Tony lifted his head, resting his weight on his elbows, and just admired the pretty picture Peter presented beneath him.

Peter's expression could only be described as pure bliss: eyes glazed and hooded; mouth slack with pleasure; inhibitions temporarily misplaced, stark and uncensored. Lust darkened his irises, as black as Tony's own were. 

Peter – the very oxygen he needed to breathe – rusted away the last of Tony's self-control. 

“Make me yours, sir,” Peter panted, body jerking with every well-timed thrust of Tony's hips. “I just want to be yours.”

Tony moaned, low and deep in response, increasing his pace, erections brushing, pleasure shooting through him. He did his best to make sure to keep his pleasure secondary to Peter's own. It was the least he could do – the very least – and Peter deserved every last drop of ephemeral euphoria Tony could gift him. He knew that this was nothing more than a footnote in the biography of Peter Parker, a transient state that fate or the cosmos or whatever the hell else controlled their destinies had ordered Peter to drive down. 

The rest of the world blurred to the background – all the worries and troubles and doubts; all the horrendous consequences his fucked-up conscious would no doubt delight in regaling him of – as everything narrowed down to this singularity. This monumental event. The universe was nothing in comparison. 

All that mattered was Peter's body, firm and soft, under his; Peter's moans spilling into his ear; Peter's pleasure, as his hips drummed an irregular rhythm into Tony's the closer he reached his end. 

Not that Tony was faring any better. Any pretence of skill, of finesse, had crumpled into dust, gone from the second he touched his lips to Peter's. He was cresting toward his climax, perspiration dripped down his forehead, plastering his hair. 

With quivering hands, Peter tenderly reached out, and brushed away the stray strands that clung to Tony's forehead. “You are so beautiful, Tony,” he murmured; a revelatory confession. 

Tony shuddered, cocooned in the blanketed words – and came. 

Ecstasy erupted in his bloodstream as he came. His mouth contorted around the syllables of Peter's name, a muted whisper, and he collapsed onto Peter with a relieved grunt. Peter followed soon after, succumbing to the pleasure of _la petite mort_ , his cries echoing in Tony's bedroom. 

Don't get him wrong – Tony'd had some pretty spectacular orgasms over his lifetime. Some really, _really_ good ones. But none held a candle to the pleasure currently splitting him apart. Tony felt remade, like every part of him had been dismantled under Peter's careful touch, and then stitched back together again. 

He rolled off Peter, but drew him close, unwilling to part for even a nanosecond. His lungs gratefully took in deep air, and his rapid heartbeat gradually subsided. Beside him, Peter was recuperating. 

It was Tony who broke the fragile quiet. “Are you sticking to me again?”

Peter stopped breathing. His eyes shuttered, eyelashes fluttering distractedly against the his throat. "No. I don't want to force you. You can go if you want to." His tone belied nothing. Tony struggled to get a read on it.

Tony sighed, filling the sliver of space between them. He cupped Peter's face, feeling the softness of his skin juxtapose the callouses on his palm. “Here's the thing...” His thumb traced a path down the flushed apple of Peter's cheek. “I don't want to. I'm never going to want to.”

Peter's dazzling smile banished away all of Tony's prior doubts – the shining light at the end of the tunnel.

There was only one way this could end, but Tony was going to make every minute count.

* * *

It was worth noting that Satan possessed a titillating rhetoric in _Paradise Lost_ , banging the drum on his political agenda, becoming a master spin doctor in his craft. 

There was a moment of self-reflection for Satan's literary persona in the epic. God had banished Satan from Heaven, destroyed his pathetic little rebellion with one fell swoop, and Satan was left to pick up the pieces. 

Satan declared: _“To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.”_

Translation: to doom himself was to be true to himself. 

_(Context: if loving Peter were to doom Tony, he would love him regardless.)_

And perhaps Satan's lexical prowess was all just another folly; a lament crafted upon lies and deceit, set to trap the poor, unsuspecting reader and beguile them into this narrative Satan had constructed for himself.

_“So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,_   
_Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;_   
_Evil be thou my good.”_

Or maybe it was his final piece of regret, a melancholic ode to the life he once lived, back when he was the angelic _Lucifer_ , and a mournful welcome to the one he was now destined for. 

Tony never presumed to know for certain ( _only a Sith deals in absolutes_... wait a minute) the truth upon which Satan's character was moulded. Yet he always found himself favouring the idea that Satan was not wholly bad. He would never go so far as to say that the devil was a misunderstood figure, at least in Milton's retelling, but numerous critics had presented evidence to suggest Satan replicated an anti-hero persona, with some even going so far as to put forth the argument that Satan was actually the protagonist of the story all along. 

Okay, yes, that last point was, admittedly, a bit of a stretch but the sentiment behind it remained the same. Characters were not simply black or white; right or wrong; good or evil. Tony was just theorising here, but look at _Paradise Lost_ – the literal embodiments of God and Satan were constantly reforming and redefining their own morality on a scale that was unique to them, and them alone. They operated in a constant state of flux; neither pertaining to the other. 

Maybe it was the truth. Or maybe this was Tony's last-ditch effort at justification. Maybe these were just the ramblings of a man gone mad. Who would ever know?

* * *

In the days, weeks, months that followed their respective love confessions, Tony and Peter's relationship progressed. By day, Peter was Tony's illegitimate love-child, and unofficial heir to his legacy. By night, Tony was his secret paramour, his stolen lover. 

Tony decorated Peter's unblemished skin with lips, tongue, teeth, roughly dragging his beard against the flesh until it was kissed a pretty pink. Peter's fingers traced the fading scars that littered his body like a roadmap, touch so light and reverent.

He took every single drop Peter gave him, lapped it up like a man dying of thirst. The soft chaste pecks in the light of day, and the deep, sensual kisses in the dead of night. Where they could delude themselves into thinking that their love was healthy.

* * *

_Satan, Sin, Death_.

Tony, Peter – and the consequences of their actions.

* * *

Death: the incestuous spawn of Satan and Sin. It came for half the universe soon enough.

It came for Peter last.

 _“I'm sorry,”_ were Peter's last words as he fell apart in Tony's arms. 

And Tony fought, with every fibre of his being, to reverse it. There was no part of him, no matter how infinitesimal, that could let Peter suffer through perdition. Tony would move Heaven and Hell to keep Peter safe; would rain fire down upon the whole goddamn world. 

Like the saying went: _the road to hell is paved with good intentions._

He conquered the laws of time, asserted hegemony over life and death like a totalitarian dictator. To get Peter back – he would do _anything_. Peter was Tony's entire universe. 

When it was all said and done, Tony assumed the role of God once more, and snapped his fingers. In his final moments, he was nothing more than a mangled shell; body mutilated and disfigured as punishment for his sacrifice, flesh fused horribly into his Iron Man suit like a cruel joke. He was leaking radiation from every orifice. 

That didn't stop Peter – glorious, magnificent, resurrected Peter – from leaping to his side. 

His face creased instantaneously, and every inch of Tony's dead skin ached to soothe away the hurt. _“I'm sorry, Tony,”_ he said again, a merciless mockery. Peter pressed their palms together, thumb brushing his scarred and blackened hand. Tony would worry for Peter's health, standing too close to him and risk getting burnt, but Peter's blood would protect him. 

Peter managed a shaky smile. 

_I love you_ , Tony thought. If the way Peter's grip tightened was any indication, he understood. He took a deep breath, and–

His last exhalation drifted off into the wind: an irretrievable relic of a timeless age.

* * *


End file.
